the farther side of the meadow, almost hidden from sight, was a square
log cabin, solid, gloomily shaded and staring empty-eyed at a tiny,
clear stream where the horses scared an eight-inch trout out of a pool
when they lowered eager noses to drink thirstily.

After that they climbed up into a more open country, clothed with
interlaced manzanita bushes and buck brush and thickets of young
balsam fir. Here, said Hank Brown, was good bear country. And a little
farther on he pulled up and pointed down to the dust of the trail,
where he said a bear had crossed that morning. Jack saw the imprint of
what looked like two ill-shaped short feet of a man walking
barefooted--or perhaps two crude hands pressed into the dirt--and was
thrilled into forgetfulness of his trouble.

Before they had gone another mile, he had bought Hank's rifle and all
the cartridges he happened to have with him. He paid as much as a new
rifle would have cost, but he did not know that--though he did know
that he had scarcely enough money left in his pocket to jingle when
the transaction was completed. He carried the rifle across the saddle
in front of him and fingered the butt pridefully while his eyes went
glancing here and there hopefully, looking for the bear that had
crossed the trail that morning. The mere possession of the rifle bent
his mood toward adventure rather than concealment. He did not think
now of the lookout station as a refuge so much as a snug lair in the
heart of a wonderful hunting ground.

He wanted to hear more about the bear and deer which Hank Brown had
shot on these slopes. But Hank was no longer in the mood for
recounting his adventures. Hank was congratulating himself upon
selling that rifle, which had lately shown a tendency to jam if he